Page 99 of Strangers in Time

She watched him closely to see if there was anything strange about his expression, but she couldn’t decide if there was or not.

“I’ve never read it.” She glanced at the title. “Little Fadette?”

“La Petite Fadettein the original French. It’s a complicated tale of twins in the rural French countryside. Writers often have a fascination with twins. Shakespeare, for example—twins are litteredthroughout his work.Twelfth Nightimmediately comes to mind. And the American Mark Twain often wrote about them.”

“Interesting. Has Mr. Sand written other novels?”

“George Sand was actually a Frenchwoman named Amantine Dupin. She wrote in the nineteenth century.”

“Why use a man’s name then?” asked Molly.

“I suppose in that time writing was not thought to be a suitable endeavor for a woman. As Imogen once told me, for most of history ‘Anonymous’ was a woman.”

“If I were ever to write a story I would do so under my own name and be proud of it. I imagine it is a great deal of work.”

Oliver glanced at the door to his wife’s study. “I can attest to that.” He added hastily, “But only because Imogen often spoke of what the ordeal entailed.”

Molly frowned at his once more bringing his wife into the conversation. She decided to finally speak up about it.

“Mr. Oliver, do you realize that you always seem to talk about Imogen as though you have no thoughts or opinions of your own, but only your recollections of what she said or did?”

He seemed struck by this observation, and at first Molly was unsure what his reaction would be. Anger, perhaps?

However, his expression softened and he leaned against the wall. “Do I?” he said wearily.

“I think you know that you do,” she said firmly. “You told me you were rather good with numbers. That is quite a unique talent. I suppose you were better at that than Imogen.”

This seemed to give Oliver pause. He looked down. “I… am quite good with… math and such. I don’t think Imogen had any interest.”

“Perhaps because she wasn’t as good at it as you are.”

He did not reply to this.

“But one can’t be good at everything, can one?”

“No,” said Oliver quietly. He glanced up at her. “I appreciate what you are trying to do, Molly. But when you have loved someone as much as I loved Imogen, and then you lose that person?” Heshrugged, his expression one of the saddest she had ever witnessed. “I think the one thing you try to do, above all, is to keep that person alive in your thoughts and words. You… you want to make sure that the person resides with you at all times. So…”

“So you have no opportunity to forget them?” said Molly.

He nodded and said, “And when one also feels guilt about another’s passing…?”

“Why would you feel guilt, Mr. Oliver? I mean, I don’t know how she died, but there was nothing you could have done, was there?”

“There is always something one can do, Molly. Always. In fact, if I had acted, she might still be alive.”

A startled Molly blurted out, “What do you—”

The kettle sounded off and a clearly uncomfortable Oliver said, “Ah, tea.” He rushed away before she could finish.

Over their cups of tea and biscuits Oliver said, “Now, Molly, I did want you to know that I wrote the War Office about your father. As soon as I receive a reply I will share it with you.”

“Thank you. I’m also going to write to the Beneficial Institute in Cornwall. The letters Dr. Stephens sent me were lost in the bombing, but I remember the address. Now, what are we going to do about Charlie?”

He explained to her about the impossibility of finding their friend. “I dearly hope that he will return here at some point.”

Frowning, she said, “But he’s out there all alone. Something may happen to him. There are… bad people in this city who can exploit defenseless children.”

He looked at her in alarm. “Molly, are you speaking about anything specifically with regard to Charlie?”

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